


In Truth

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Author Has Never Written Porn Before, Author Is V Scared, Awkward Middle Aged Virgins, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 21:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6488365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He must have fallen asleep soon after he got into bed, because he woke to a movement in the darkness, the quiet sounds of a waistcoat and shirt being tossed at a chair, the thump of trousers hitting the floor, the whisper of a nightshirt being slipped over a head. Valjean kept his eyes closed and his ears open, marvelling at the man he had become; a man who could, finally, rest easy enough at night that he was no longer afraid of noises in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This little thing doesn't add anything remarkably new to the Valvert fandom - I wrote it half to prove to myself that I could and half just to torture myself creatively speaking. I have NEVER written anything like this before and I'm scared half to death to be honest.
> 
> Love and hugs to Vana who encouraged me and convinced me it wasn't the worst thing ever written.

He must have fallen asleep soon after he got into bed, because he woke to a movement in the darkness, the quiet sounds of a waistcoat and shirt being tossed at a chair, the thump of trousers hitting the floor, the whisper of a nightshirt being slipped over a head. Valjean kept his eyes closed and his ears open, marvelling at the man he had become; a man who could, finally, rest easy enough at night that he was no longer afraid of noises in the dark.

The bed creaked, and there was a momentary chill as Javert pulled the blankets back and slipped in behind him. Valjean breathed deeply, careful to not give himself away, as Javert collapsed onto his back, muttering under his breath. It was not normal for him to keep his distance anymore, not since the first time Valjean had invited him to sleep beside him. Neither of them had ever shared a bed with another, yet they seemed to have come to it naturally enough after no small amount of shifting and rearranging. Javert had been brave first, incredibly, thrown his caution to the winds and moulded his taller frame around Valjean’s, his chest pressed to Valjean’s back and his face buried in Valjean’s shoulder, and that was how they slept now. Sometimes, Javert awoke with a numb arm, a problem they had no solution to, but he never seemed to mind it and so Valjean resolved not to mind either. 

Besides, he himself usually woke with a far more pressing problem; a hardness between his legs that he dare not reveal to Javert, for fear of it all becoming too much far too quickly. If this was all Javert could ever give him, he would be happy with it. It had been a long while since Jean Valjean had ever asked for anything for himself, and he could go on without asking for a little longer yet. Instead, he had taken to slipping from the bed before Javert awoke and washing himself in cold water, resolutely refusing to touch himself there. He could not help it, he knew; Javert’s warmth, his proximity, was like nothing he had ever known. 

Once upon a time, waking in such a state might have shamed him. He might have taken himself in hand, if only to be rid of the ache, a furtive and joyless chore that more often than not left him feeling worse than he had before. These days he did not touch because – well, because he dared to hope that perhaps the next hand would not have to be his, if Javert did ever choose to come to him. He had even dared to go so far as to reconcile his heart with God, in his prayers at least, and come to the conclusion that the God he knew would never condemn a man for loving. Perhaps one day he would even be able to share those thoughts with the man who shared his bed. And if, in the end, Javert did not ask, Valjean could at least sleep easy with the knowledge that he had not sullied what they did have. 

Behind him, Javert shifted and cleared his throat.

“Valjean? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Valjean smiled into his pillow, “I am.”

A pause.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies.”

Valjean made a small noise deep in his throat and released his hand from where he had trapped it in his sleep. He reached behind him and found Javert’s arm, still too far away. He gave it a gentle tug and Javert got the message, shifting closer until he was settled in his usual place. His hands were cold, as they always were, as was the nose that he pressed into Valjean’s neck, but he would soon warm up. Valjean had once shuddered at the feel of them, thoughtless in his half asleep state, and Javert had fled to spend the night in the guest room, until Valjean manhandled him back to the bed, promising him that it was only the chill of his hands that had startled him and not some long held fear of Javert himself resurfacing. It was strange but this Javert, the one who had almost leapt into the river for fear of who his convict had become, was sensitive to Valjean in a way that he would never have anticipated. Sometimes, Valjean wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into the man, for he was not at all as delicate as all that. He did not though; Javert’s grasp on his own humanity was both hard won and tenuous, and if he was perhaps a little over-cautious as a result of that, Valjean would not risk what they had for the sake of his own pride.

“What happened? The boy said you would return after supper.”

There was no answer, save for the soft puffs of breath against his neck, the relaxing of Javert’s arm around him.

He was already asleep, a blessing in itself. Too often Javert neglected his own health, despite Valjean’s best attempts to make it not so. He raised the hand draped around his waist to his mouth and kissed each rough knuckle, before he pressed it against his heart.

He closed his eyes.

“Good night.”

A beat of silence, then Javert raised his head enough to press a clumsy kiss to the back of Valjean’s neck.

“G’night,” he mumbled.

*

When next he awoke, the thin light of dawn was doing battle with the curtains that Cosette had insisted he purchase. They were heavy, luxurious in a way that he was not used to, but they also helped to warm the room, and that was why he had relented in the end. He did not have only himself to think of anymore. Javert was still laid close to him and, as he had expected, Valjean’s body had reacted accordingly. He considered leaving the bed and dealing with the problem, but the air was chilly and, in a rare moment of wanting, found that he did not wish to step into it, let alone have his customary cold wash. He could hear no sign of Javert waking and discovering him just yet; indeed, he had not so far, and would be unlikely to begin this morning. Valjean curled his hand into the pillow and tried to go back to sleep, tried to ignore the ache between his legs, but it was no good. He was an early riser and always had been, and now he was awake he would not sleep again, especially for as long as he was ignoring his body. A wild fancy took him and he held his breath, lifting Javert’s arm just enough so that he could turn and face the man. He tugged his nightshirt down to cover himself as best he could, and cushioned his head with a hand as he allowed himself to observe Javert in sleep.

He had not done this before, though he had considered it, and as he took in the sight of Javert’s face, relaxed like he had never seen it, he wondered why he had denied himself the pleasure for so long. Javert’s face was softer, the anxious lines smoothed away. His lips, parted a little, were slack and before he could stop his hand, Valjean had reached out and run a thumb over those lips. They were chapped and rough and he wanted to kiss them. Instead, he paused to see if Javert had been disturbed and, when he did not stir, traced over the shell of the ear that he could see, trailed a fingertip through the sideburn. He had rarely been allowed to touch Javert like this; the man did not think he was worthy of such attentions, no matter how Valjean burned for the chance. His prick, softening since he woke, began to harden once more and he pulled away; it was not fair to take advantage of Javert when he was vulnerable like this. Valjean was not that man. He was many things but he had never been that. 

Reluctantly, he took his hand away and made to turn, to remove himself from the bed and the temptation, to take to his knees in prayer for a while until the ache had faded and he could look Javert in the eye when he awoke. He had almost untangled himself from the blankets when a hand shot out and gripped his elbow.

“Valjean.”

He froze. 

Javert was awake. 

_How long had he been awake?_

“Look at me, Valjean.”

His voice was rough with sleep, but Valjean had never been able to resist that tone. His face flushed, he took a deep breath and turned back. Javert had raised his head slightly, blinking away the heaviness of sleep, but his face was unreadable, until he glanced down and reddened, eyes wide.

Valjean closed his eyes, against the heat and the humiliation that flooded his veins. Oh God above. Javert knew. His shame. Oh God-  
He was not expecting the tentative fingertip that stroked him. He gasped and flinched like he had been burned, before he forced his eyes open, his hips straining towards Javert on their own accord, even as his mind seemed to close down.

Javert had drawn back too and for an agonising moment, they stayed like that; Valjean, his nightshirt rucked up his thighs, prick straining even as horror began to creep up his spine; Javert, hand halfway between them, laid out like a promise and a threat and something else that Valjean could not name. There was silence, but then Javert took a deep breath of his own and the hand snaked forwards once more, and when his fingers closed over his prick, Valjean thought he might spill himself there and then. 

_No hand. No other hand. Oh God-_

“Javert,” he swallowed, and his eyes rolled back as Javert began to move his fist, so slowly that it would have been called teasing if done by any other man, “Javert-”

Javert seemed incapable of speech, incapable of anything other than that gentle stroking movement. He did not look at Valjean, his face burning so red that Valjean could feel his heat, and when he could bear it no longer Valjean reached out and tangled a hand in his hair, lifting his head gently until he was forced to look him in the eye. Javert’s expression was set and he looked every part the hunter who had dogged Valjean for so many years, the image that had haunted him. His eyes told a different story, though, one that Valjean was much more familiar with these days; there was the fear, the terror of taking the next step into the dark when before he had only ever followed the path lit before him. 

_He has had to change himself far more than I ever did_ , the thought came, unbidden and stark in its truth, _I will show him the way. If I can. If I dare._

Valjean could not speak to tell Javert so, to whisper any such reassurances, not with the pressure building inside him until he thought that he might faint. In place of words, he did what he knew. He leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Javert’s, trailing up his sideburn until he could kiss Javert’s ear, take the delicate lobe into his mouth and suck it gently, until Javert let out a noise that sounded too close to a sob for Valjean to ignore it. Reluctantly, he released his ear and rested their foreheads together.

“Javert, you do not – I do not – please do not do this unless you wish it.”

As an answer, Javert dared to run a thumb over the head of his prick and that was enough for his body, so starved of any touch for so long. Valjean shuddered as he came, spend covering Javert’s hand and for a moment there was only the sounds of their ragged breathing. As Valjean came back to himself, he looked down and saw the true reason for Javert’s whimper; he had released onto the sheets from the lips on his ear alone.

When he could breathe again, Valjean took Javert’s hand and wiped it carefully with the already ruined sheet, before he took Javert’s head between his hands, threaded his fingers into his hair, and kissed his face, that dear, dear face, until Javert was trembling and pulling away. 

“Jean, no more,” he mumbled desperately, “Too much, Jean.”

“I am sorry,” he gasped, pressing a last kiss to Javert’s forehead and then settling down on his side to look him in the eye once more.

“Do not tell me you regret it,” he said roughly, surprised at the tears in his own voice, “It need never happen again but please do not regret it.”

Javert was quiet for a long while, before he placed a tentative kiss on Valjean’s fluttering eyelids and shook his head.

“I do not regret you. Next time, slower.”

Valjean could not stop the tears then but Javert brushed them away and pulled him to his chest, a little too tightly but Valjean found he could bear it happily enough when the arms were Javert’s.

“Go back to sleep. We will both be here in the morning, will we not?”


End file.
